Give You What You Like
by Feel the Steel
Summary: Trevor Philips/OC. She's a crooked cop, he's a deranged criminal. What could possibly go wrong?


** Chapter 1 **

Detective Gina Parrish listens to the radio as she drives down the freeway toward Sandy Shores. The name sounds beautiful on paper, conjuring up images of a quaint coastal town that one may well find on a postcard, a fact that she finds to be rather laughable. Years prior when she was first starting out on the police force, the town, once a thriving holiday destination for city professionals looking to escape the excitement of the metropolis to the South, had been overrun by dealers and had sunk into a deep abyss from which it would never recover. Over the course of ten years she has watched the paltry town and its destitute residents face innumerable hardships, further exacerbated by the most recent drug of choice. Meth is a particularly belligerent drug, a torturous affliction, one which turns ordinary people into subhumans, becoming nothing short of monstrous, incapable or perhaps reluctant to break free from its grip upon themselves it compels them to leave their children by the roadside in the dead of the night, forces them to sleep with anyone for enough money simply to get high. The victims of such a destructive blight will oftentimes kill anyone standing between them and the most recent scourge upon the once sleepy town. Over the years she has witnessed plenty of lives ruined by the drug, a vast majority by the dangers of production. The supposed chemists who produce the drug take their lives into their own hands, a single spark can ignite an entire building, and often, when the wind is right, an entire street can be decimated. Even the dust from the manufacturing process is lethal.

She leans her head back against the head rest and turns on the air conditioning yawning loudly as she does so. She has been awake since five o'clock the previous morning, and after an all night drinking session ensuing the end of her shift at eight o'clock the prior evening she is feeling largely similar to road kill, like she has been struck head on by a truck. Gritty eyes, dry mouth, and a grievous headache that she expects to be with her throughout the day; all the signs of a hangover. Steering with one finger she flips the lid from her coffee cup and takes a tentative sip, the hot liquid scalds her upper lip and she winces spilling a portion on her navy slacks yet she continues to drink. She takes her eyes off of the road briefly and glances down at the tip of a glass whiskey bottle that is peeking out enticingly from beneath the passenger seat and she momentarily considers stopping the car and adding a quick shot of whiskey to her beverage, but it will most likely cause her to feel much worse, and she continues to her destination sipping on the bitter coffee and squinting through the dark lenses of her sunglasses.

She slows and briefly flicks on her indicator before taking a left, she slows the truck to a crawl in front of a dilapidated filling station at the far end of the town. Three cruisers and two unmarked cars are parked in front of the crumbling edifice and she pulls up close behind one of the unmarked vehicles, a dark silver Tailgater with severely tinted windows. The rear of the sedan sits significantly lower than the front to accommodate the gun rack containing an array of weapons stored in the trunk and the tires are thicker than most, evidently bulletproof. A blind man could easily peg the vehicle as a police car in three seconds flat. Her own vehicle, a Bobcat pickup in a conspicious shade of gaudy red, rolling off the assembly line before she was born the truck goes largely unnoticed in the desert town with its endless supply of pick up trucks and ageing muscle cars.

Rather than stepping out of her truck, Gina waits, listening to the end of the song playing on Rebel Radio as she closes her eyes, enjoying the sole moment of peace that she will have for the remainder of the day. She has been on the force for ten years now and had worked the streets for three years before she had received her detective's shield, becoming the youngest detective in Blain County history, the fact that she was a woman had caused quite a stir in an as yet still largely male dominated work force, and with a clearance rate of over eight percent in her first year out of uniform, almost double the national average, she had fallen victim to many cruel jokes. She taps her fingers on the steering wheel as she whistles along with Waylon Jennings knowing that as soon as she exits the vehicle that it will all undoubtedly begin again; the sleepless nights, the torment, the seemingly endless supply of leads that never lead anywhere, the ornery bosses and the unnerved locals breathing down her neck.

She starts when someone knocks abruptly on the window and she looks down at her partner, a young detective with thick biceps and a blonde crew cut that would put the military to shame. He leans against the door and motions to her with his fist to roll down the window, and, switching off the radio, she snatches her keys from the ignition and throws open the door causing her partner to stumble backwards in surprise as she jumps down from the driver's seat into the glaring San Andreas sun. Despite the aid of her sunglasses, she shields her eyes with one hand as she looks at him.

"What've we got?" she asks as she shrugs off her navy suit jacket and tosses it onto the passenger seat before slamming the door. One hand cups her brow and the other drops to the holster on her waist to tap the butt of her pistol, it is not a nervous habit, but rather one of necessity, she has been taught from day one that she must always know the exact location of her weapon in the instance that she may well need it, and working in and around Sandy Shores she has fired her gun on thousands of occasions. The meager seconds that locating her weapon may save her are enough to potentially save her life in a fire fight.

"It's pretty nasty, Parrish," he tells her struggling to catch up to her when she strides past him, and she pauses. The younger man almost crashes into her when she spins around to face him.

"They're all nasty, Rookie. But if these nutjobs didn't keep offing each other every other day we'd be out of a job, and you wouldn't have that nice shiny new car. What'd that set you back, twenty grand?" She gestures to the Tailgater and the younger man stutters in a combination of surprise and embarrassment whilst she observes him coolly through her aviator sunglasses. "_More_? Jesus. You should have went to the scrap yard and saved yourself some cash, mark my words, someone'll have tossed a match in the gas tank by the end of the week. The damn thing screams cop." She turns back around and her partner begins to follow her keeping a distance of several feet between them and she tosses over her shoulder, "And keep up. I don't bite, Rookie."

Startled, the blonde hurries to walk beside her and she glances down at him, at five feet ten she is rather tall for a woman, yet she stands almost five inches taller than the younger man, who, presumably has made up for his diminutive stature by hitting the gym furiously. His biceps strain against the thin material of his jacket and his shirt is tight across his broad chest. Gina herself has created a small homemade gym in her garage and has spent hundreds of hours running on the treadmill until she feels physically ill and lifting weights until her arms hang uselessly by her sides; the monotony of the exercise is an outlet, allowing her to sweat out the pain and frustration of the job and the sickening scent of death until she is left weak and breathless, empty inside, only to repeat the process mere days later.

Her partner is in his mid-twenties, only slightly older than she when she earned her gold badge, probably still living in his mother's basement whilst desperately clinging to the sliver of hope that he may one day make an impact on the world and change it for the better, still living and breathing the bullshit he had been fed by recruiters. One thing that she has learned throughout her years on the force is the disheartening fact that one cannot change the world, although the world will most certainly change you, at least it has altered both her and her view on the world, and not at all for the better. She had joined the police force straight out of high school hoping to bring about some level of change in a county that was crying out for help, yet instead she has grown increasingly bitter with each year that passes, rapidly becoming one of those cops whom she had sworn she would never become, the sort that had made her sick through their actions and that throws rules and caution to the wind as they bide their time until their retirement.

Her boss, Randy O'Rourke, ducks under the yellow police tape that cordons off the street shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over his shoulder as he does so. The day is stiflingly warm and the late afternoon sun glares down upon them and the captain's shirt is sweat stained, his forehead slick with sweat. He catches sight of the detectives and proceeds hurriedly towards them, rake thin and tall, pasty skinned from years spent comfortably behind a desk, and his long legs carry him towards the pair in four long strides.

"Parrish, it's about time. I know you're homicide and your victims' days are over, but Jesus Christ. What was your ETA on crimes in uniform? Twelve hours?" he asks sweeping aside a stray blonde curl from his forehead. Although he is in his late sixties his hair is still predominantly blonde with only a slight hint of grey at the temples.

"Hey, Captain. And if you want it done right, sometimes you've got to wait a little longer, good work can't be rushed, you know that. Anyway, you could'a passed it on to the Rookie, he can handle it, ain't that right, Rookie?" she asks and reaches out to slap her partner on the shoulder with a greater deal of force that she had intended. She looks up at her boss and pushes her sunglasses up onto her head to hold her red hair off of her face. He had plucked her straight out of the police academy not because she was a women or to make up the yearly quota but because he had seen something within her, some level of promise, a spark that lacking in his other officers, and he had taken her under his wing, passing on all of the knowledge and experience he had gained in a career that has spanned almost half a century moulding her into a cop that any department in the country would have been proud to have. "So, what's we got? More meth heads clawing each other's eyes out over a dollar fifty?" she asks her voice devoid of any trace of sarcasm.

"It's a Goddamn mess. If there was enough of that poor bastard to see claw marks I'd be happy," O'Rourke tells her and swiftly motions for the detectives to follow him. The uniformed officer standing by the police tape holds it up for them and she smiles her thanks as she ducks under, as she lowers her head her sunglasses fall down painfully onto her nose, she pushes them up on the bridge of her nose and pauses to look around the surrounding area, taking in the run down trailers and the damager vehicles that litter the sparsely populated street. Located in the centre of one of the most prosperous states in America Sandy Shores is much like a worse case scenario, a town that the local police force considers to be very much a war zone.

"How long did it take to get somebody out here?" she asks frowning and once more shielding her eyes as she observes the street. She sees no one but she knows that within the nearby trailers she is being watched intently. In the distance she sees the calm lake glittering in the sunlight, a solitary mark of beautiy that is largely out of place amongst the unseemly scenery.

"Thirty-eight minutes," he tells her flatly to which she nods slowly, not at all surprised by the slow response time. According to a recent investigation Sandy Shores has the lowest response time in Blaine County, and one of the lowest in San Andreas, with an average response time of forty-three minutes for homicides, whilst ambulances and the response to other crimes take considerably longer. "And God only knows how long it took for someone to notice them."

"_Them_?" she asks incredulously and looks over her shoulder at her partner who trails absently behind the pair. "You didn't tell me there were two."

The younger man shrugs apologetically and drops his gaze taking an unusual interest in the toes of his shoes. "I'm sorry, Parrish, you never asked."

"Jesus _fuck_, I ain't a mind reader, Rookie, when you tell me we've got a body, I'm going to assume that you mean _one_. Do you see the problem there?" she asks shaking her head in irritation and emitting a loud sigh of contempt. She mutters, "What I'd give to have Sampson back." Her previous partner, an older man who had died one month prior and who, much like herself, had become jaded after his years on the force and bent the rules to such an extent that towards the end the fine line of responsibility and reasoning that separated them from the rest of society greatly resembled a parabola had taken her under his wing and, while O'Rourke had taught her police etiquette and how to become a respected law enforcer, Sampson had taken apart three years of work in a matter of weeks showing her how to twist the rules to get the desired results.

"Sorry."

She looks up at the captain and rolls her eyes though the action is obscured by the dark lenses of her sunglasses. "I told you I'd cope on my own. All you've given me here is a secretary who can't pass on a simple memo. Now don't get me wrong, O'Rourke, I've heard that secretaries are good for other things, but I'm not a cliché, I ain't fuckin' my secretary." Following the death of her partner, a man with whom she had worked closely for seven years she had emphatically insisted that she would work on her own and had loudly voiced her disdain for showing a young detective the ropes.

"You're _not_ a cliché," O'Rourke says with a derisive laugh and Gina bristles. "The loose cannon detective chasing down criminals in a shitty seventies car, like that shit hasn't been regurgitated in every Goddamn cop show this side of the Atlantic since the eighties." She scoffs and he continues his voice taking on a scolding tone, "That's _not_ a compliment, Parrish, I've got Internal Affairs breathing down my neck after that stunt you pulled last month and to top it off The Lost are out for blood. Do you have any idea how many people I had to go through to find you a partner? Every one of them said no, young Carter's a very brave man. That, or stupid."

"Who the fuck is Carter?" The captain gestures lazily over his shoulder and she looks back at her partner who smiles uncertainly and she tells him gruffly, "Let's stick with Rookie, okay?" She again looks up at her boss who is wiping at his forehead with a handkerchief, there is a sheen of sweat on his forehead and the front of his shirt is damp and sticks to his chest, meanwhile, Gina walks beside him comfortable in her slacks and long-sleeved blouse, she had been born and raised in Sandy Shores and has been accustomed to the heat throughout her life. "Where are they?" she asks and he points ahead loosening his tie with his other hand.

"Straight ahead," he tells her and the three of them fall silent as they follow the sandy road that is little more than a dirt track within a decaying town that had once been prosperous.

Gina blinks dust from her eyes and tucks her auburn hair behind her ears tugging it out of her face as, in the relative quiet the familiar sounds of a crime scene drift towards her. The click and whirr of cameras as evidence is gathered, the slam of the door on the coroner's van, and the distinct sound of laughter. The laughter is a constant accompaniment to any crime scene, the jokes and the exaggerated bravado that each one of them whether they have been on the job for little more than a week or thirty years participate in, the pretense that they all must partake in to allow them to do their jobs with some level of professionalism without returning home each night and beating their spouse or putting a loaded pistol to their temple and pulling the trigger. Alcohol of course plays a significant part in their careers, she has seen each one of them at the Yellow Jack Inn on numerous occasions and they do not acknowledge one another as they sit alone at the bar quietly drowning the memories of the day with liquor and most mornings the squad room smells like a brewery. Most, if not all of them, drink on the job, and a vast majority of them partake in casual and mindless sex, something that does indeed allow them to forget who they are for one night and to blow off some steam, to be held and briefly loved by someone who knows little of their life and does not judge them.

She stops beside the county medical examiner, Jim Weathers, a small, quiet man with a shock of thick white hair and a broad mustache that droops over his upper lip. She stands in the centre of the road inches from a set of tire tracks, the wind has picked up and the sand that has blown along the street has almost obscured the markings. Ahead of the tracks is a dark pool of coagulating blood the edges spreading outwards in thin rivulets.

Neither Gina nor the three men speak as they observe the scene taking in the two bodies that are curled together as though in a final lover's embrace. The dark haired woman lies beside her companion her arms enveloping his chest, one leg is bent at an awkward angle jutting out below the knee yet despite this she is largely unscathed and for all intents and purposes she could well be sleeping off a hangover by the side of the sandy road, Gina has certainly found inebriated locals sleeping off the night before in far stranger locations. Her heavily applied make up is smeared on her face, she is neither ugly nor beautiful with the potential to be attractive if not for the sores that mar her skin and the pattern of needle marks that adorn her slender arms. Bruises that are yet to fully develop between her thighs may well have come from her killer. Her eyes are open, dark and lifeless, staring vacantly up at the sky and Gina looks up also and watches a small aircraft as it flies low overhead.

The man however, Gina makes the assumption that she is indeed looking at a man based solely on the size of the body and the choice of attire, has not fared quite so well as his companion. His face is a grotesque mess, severely bloodied and devoid of any distinguishing features that may identify him as having once been a human being. He too boasts a series of needles marks on his arms forming abstract patterns on his skin. The right side of his head is sunken, the skull having been shattered beneath the force of enormous blows, and the wet mess that is his face glistens in the sunlight.

"Shit," her partner breathes emitting a low whistle breaking the reverent silence that has fallen over the group. His face is white, ashen, and his lips are pressed into a thin line, this is only the second homicide in which he has worked as one of the lead detectives, he and Gina's first case together had been open and shut, unremarkable, a store clerk killed by a single gunshot during a robbery and the next morning the teenage shooter, little older than fifteen, had tearfully turned himself in at the station. She observes her partner for a long moment and she intuitively knows that she will see him this evening at The Yellow Jack Inn hastily drinking one Scotch after another as he tries desperately to get the taste of death out of his mouth.

"Anything?" she asks Jim who shakes his head slowly. She should of course know better than to ask, she has known the older man since leaving the academy and has worked closely with him on many occasions and is well aware of the fact that the man will never jump to conclusions. Hell, the man probably wouldn't hazard an educated guess that they were indeed looking at two bodies until they had been stitched up on the autopsy table.

He continues to shake his head before replying, his voice is soft, a monotone and the lack of emotion with which he speaks infuriates Gina, a red head of Irish descent with a fiery and explosive temper to match. "It took a lot of rage to do something like this," he tells her to which she nods quickly.

"He would need to have hated him to do this," O'Rourke states and the younger of the four looks questioningly at their captain.

"He?" her partner asks.

"The logical conclusion'd be that the killer is male," Gina explains. "To start with, the overwhelming majority of killers, serial or otherwise, are male. Females have a higher tendency to kill for monetary profit or for some form of gain. Of course, the same can be said for their male counterparts, but it's not particularly common. Past case studies've shown that female killers generally kill people close to them, like husbands, family members, while men kill strangers much more often. When a woman kills it's also a much quieter affair; poison, drugs, suffocation, less violence and less mess. Males, on the other hand, they show a far greater tendency to make their victim suffer, they go all out, get real close and personal," she tells him and when the blonde detective looks at her in surprise she offers a grim smile and shrugs, "I'm not just a pretty face, Rookie. Now, what d'you think about the girl?"

"Well," the younger man begins his voice faltering and she hears the distinct tremor in his voice and she realises that he is frightened of her. "I think she was a mistake. She caught the perp in the act and he had to take her out to avoid detection." He looks at her expectantly as though seeking her approval.

She stares down at him for a long moment and looks between her partner and O'Rourke who expertly hides a smile and she slaps his shoulder once more. "'The perp was caught in the act so he had to take her out'? The _perp_? Take your _CSI_ bullshit elsewhere, we're not auditioning for a crime drama here. Fuck me. But I do like your thinking," she points to the multilated corpse and continues, "all the rage has been directed at him rather than our sleeping doll over there."

"I'll find out who they are," the blonde offers enthusiastically and Gina smiles at his eagerness. "We'll need photographs to show locals, find out if anyone recognises them, I guess we've got software to remodel his face?"

"Maybe the Feds or LSPD do, but this is Sandy Shores, we blew our entire budget on this year's Christmas party," Gina tells him with a laugh.

"But it's June."

"We celebrated Christmas in April. Good night, right, O'Rourke?" Gina asks the captain who offers a grim smile and shakes his head.

"Before you start searching every database in the country, did you notice anything else?" O'Rourke asks to which the puzzled younger man shakes his head. "Look at their jackets," he tells the detective and waits patiently whilst he looks over the bodies before he glances up at Gina and looks between his partner and their boss much like a deer caught in headlights. "_The Lost_, Carter, that will narrow down your search."

"Dammit," Gina mutters and rubs her eyes with the back of one hand cursing herself for not having noticed the detail immediately. She chalks the error up to her lack of sleep and the slight buzz from the alcohol that is yet to wear off.

"Internal Affairs and the Chief aren't going to like this," O'Rourke tells her and Gina curls her upper lip in irritation. "It's only been a month, Parrish. This department doesn't need any more trouble; this does not look good for us at all. We've only just calmed them down and now this. What's next, you go to war with The Lost, the O'Neill's and Philips?"

"Sounds like a really shitty band." The captain frowns unamused by her humour and she tells him, "Oh, come on, O'Rourke, shit happens. We should be celebratin', now we've got two less meth heads to deal with," she tells him to which he simply shakes his head and turns heading back towards his hand.

The older man throws over his shoulder, "Carter, Parrish, start looking for witnesses, go door to door. I want you both back at the station by the end of the day." She watches him begin to leave tugging at his sweat soaked shirt as he does so. "And Parrish?" She looks up and he gestures for her to join him several feet from the crime scene and, motioning for her partner to remain where he is, she crosses over to him.

"Yes?"

"How's Vince?" he asks and she shrugs.

"He's fine, I haven't seen much of him since Sampson died, I've had too much going on to focus on anything else," she explains and he nods in understanding. She has been engaged for close to three years to a mechanic with the Sandy Shores branch of Los Santos Customs, and in recent weeks the pair, at one time inseparable, have grown distanct, a chasm between them as she struggles to come to terms with the loss of her partner and the harsh reality of her job.

"Don't let this job get in the way of your life," O'Rourke tells her gently. Married to his high school sweetheart, the couple have been married for fourty four years, and Gina is yet to hear them exchange a single harsh word.

She nods. "Sure, sure. Is there anything else? I've got a job to do," she says abruptly. "Any other cases you need me on? We both know this is going to be a cold case."

"Aside from the usual domestic disputes and petty theft, a couple of tourists have been reported missing," he informs her and she shakes her head and laughs.

"I'm homicide, when they turn up dead then let me know. But how long have they been missing?"

"About twelve hours," he states and again she shakes her head.

"Come on, O'Rourke, why has this report even made it this far? Give it another twenty four hours and if they don't turn up hungover in an alley then put Hanlon and Bouvier on it, it's about time they did something," she tells him. In recent months there have been numerous reports of tourists and hitch hikers going missing in the wilderness that surrounds Sandy Shores, but with no sightings, no evidence to go on and not enough man power the cases have quickly gone cold. "I'd better get back, I'll come round for dinner one night, alright?" she says waving goodbye as she joins her partner once more.

She stops and looks down at her partner and gestures to the trailer directly ahead of them. "C'mon, Rookie, this one's closest, we'll start here." She looks at the medical examiner. "See you later, Jim. If anything comes up you give me a call." She brushes past her partner who lightly takes hold of her arm and she pauses.

"Shouldn't we be starting with the obvious?" he asks her. His grip remains on her arm and she stares at his hand until he releases his hold on her and takes a step back. "Anyone that had a grudge? Or wanted The Lost gone?"

"You mean anyone in competition with The Lost?" she asks and the younger man nods. "Well, that covers half this town, everyone fancies themselves an entrepeneur. But that is _exactly_ what I'm doing, Rookie. You see that trailer right there? We're going to pay Mr Philips a visit, see what he's got to say for himself. You wanna interview him?"

"I haven't interviewed a suspect yet," he tells her nervously to which she shrugs.

"He's not a suspect, _yet_, he's a witness for the time being. And I'll give you the same advice my partner gave me when I was starting out; 'My name is Detective Dingus, I'm investigating a crime in your area and I know that you folks want to keep your neighbourhood safe, so did you see anything particularly shitty happenin' today?' And if one'a these rednecks whips out a banjo, just fuckin' run with it, Rookie," she tells him and starts to turn back but pauses once more when he reaches out and takes hold of her arm her eyes narrowing in annoyance.

"_Carter_. My name is Detective Jeffrey Carter," he tells her and she flashes a shark's smile.

She leans down putting her face close to his and tells him quietly, "You take that kind of tone with the tweakers here and your Mama'll be carving that on your headstone, _Jeffrey_. Now, come on, we're wasting time." She crosses the narrow road and passes through the gap in the chain link fence that borders the small trailer, the trailer is significantly shabbier than its neighbours, the aluminium sidings coated with rust and the roof sunken. Her partner follows close behind her as they climb the steps to the porch, the structure has been poorly constructed the wood unsteady beneath their feet and has begun to rot in places, and with each step the wood creaks perilously below them and she pauses by the door.

"You ever met Trevor Philips, Detective Jeffrey Carter?" she asks.

"Maybe down at the station. I think so," he says nervously and she watches in amusement as he looks around nervously taking in their surroundings. He adds, "And Carter will do just fine."

Gina shakes her head and once more taps the butt of her gun ensuring that she can reach for it easily and quickly if need be before she reaches out and loudly knocks on the thin metal door watching as it shakes precariously beneath the force. She smoothes down a crease on the front of her shirt, a bright shade of red that clashes with her hair, and tucks a a flyaway strand of auburn hair behind her ear telling her partner, "If you only think so, then you haven't met him. There's no forgetting this guy. And a word of advice, unbutton your jacket, you can get to your weapon easier; you're my only back up and I don't want you fumbling around trying to get your gun if things go to shit." The younger man nods and hastily begins to unfasten his suit jacket.

"Do you think we'll need them?" he asks and immediately she hears the tremor in his voice as he points to his weapon.

"You can never be too careful." Tired of waiting, she kicks the bottom of the door several times. "Police, Philips. Open up," she shouts and listens to heavy footsteps within the trailer, she takes a step back when the door swings open.

"What is it now?"

She tilts her head back to look up at him, he is exceptionally tall standing at over half a foot taller than she and the top of his head is just shy of skimming the top of the door despite the fact that he is slouched against the door frame with strong tattooed arms crossed over his bare chest. His demeanour is lethargic, uninterested, yet his dark eyes watch her carefully and Gina stares back at him watching him as intently as he does she. Her partner reaches into his pocket for his badge and she holds out a hand to stop him, she knows the man before them well, she has stood on this very porch on many an occasion, her gun in one hand and handcuffs dangling from the other.

The younger detective pays no mind to her and flashes his badge telling him in a voice that is curiously filled with authority, a stark contrast to his previous manner, "Mr Philips, Detective Georgina Parrish and Detective Jeffrey Carter, we have a few questions for you regarding a crime in your local area, may we come in?"

Trevor slowly casts his gaze on her partner and she hears the younger man take in a sharp breath just as she can feel him trembling beneath his penetrating stare. The police academy teaches new recruits plenty from interview techniques to firearms training and shows them graphic pictures of violent crime to prepare them for life on the streets and to provide them with the necessary skills to do their jobs efficiently, but the academy certainly does not ready them for the day when they will look into the cold eyes of a psychopath. "Jesus," the older man mutters looking her partner up and down disdainfully.

"It's not Georgina," she tells her partner not taking her eyes off of the man who is looming in the doorway. His hard gaze calmly flicks between the pair and she notices a trace of a smirk playing on his thin lips.

Her partner falters unnerved by their witness. "I'm sorry, Detective Regina Parrish and Dete-"

Again, she holds her hand to stop him however on this occasion she slams her palm into his chest and speaks quietly in an attempt to suppress the anger and the embarrassment that she feels whilst the older man continues to smirk down at her. "It's just Gina," she informs her partner annunciating each word slowly. She looks back at Trevor, whilst most civilians would be rather disconcerted by their presence on their doorstep he is not at all concerned and continues to watch them in amusement. "Well?" she snaps having lost patience. "My colleague here asked you a question. Y'think you can move and let us in? Like Carter said, we've got some questions for you."

"Well, that all depends, sweetheart," he says as he runs one tattooed hand through his thinning dark hair watching her with a predatory smile.

She sighs and pushes her sunglasses onto the top of her head and curls her fingers around her weapon. "Philips, do not fuck with me. Either you move out of my way right fuckin' now and let me do my job or you'll be in prison within the hour, I'll personally drive you there," she tells him becoming tired of their exchange.

"Will you come visit me for a conjugal?" he asks. He runs the tip of his tongue around the edge of his mouth and she barks a laugh.

"You'll get a conjugal, alright, Philips, and plenty of them. The inmates _love_ fresh meat, they'll pass you around like a fuckin' joint. They'll fuck you in places you didn't even know could be fucked."

One corner of his mouth twists up into a smile. "That's some filthy language from such a pretty little lady," he tells her. "You know I've always liked redheads." She remains silent, her blue eyes so dark they are almost black never once leaving his and he too watches her for another moment quietly assessing her before he slowly steps aside and immediately, Gina roughly pushes past him and steps into his trailer. Her partner follows suit but Trevor blocks his path towering over the much smaller man who takes a fearful step back.

"And where do you think you're going? No, no, this is between me and the pretty detective, not that you're not pretty, sugar, but you're just not my type," he tells her partner resuming his former stance as he leans against the door frame.

"Parrish?" her partner asks timidly.

"Go back to the scene, Rookie, get a feel for it," she tells her partner who swiftly disappears without another word unwilling to be in the older man's presence for any longer than necessary.

Trevor slams the door and locks it before he leans back against it and observes her for some time without speaking. The silence is heavy and fills the room enveloping the two of them, she shifts beneath his gaze and slowly she slides her holster from her shoulders and tosses it onto the worn sofa behind her not once breaking eye contact. He is barefoot, wearing nothing aside from a pair of torn dirty jeans and when she finally does look away she finds herself tracing the myriad of scars that adorn his body with her eyes, each mark tells a horrific story and she focuses on the keloid scar on his abdomen.

"What do you think you're doing?"

She looks up at him and frowns sliding off her sunglasses and tossing them carelessly behind her. She hears them fall and asks him, "What do you mean?"

"Comin' here during the fuckin' day? Bringing your fuckin' kid along?" he asks and she watches his fists as they clench and unclench. He bites down hard on his lower lip and she frowns.

"I'm working. Two people were killed right outside your home, so that makes you a potential witness in a double homicide, Philips. In fact, right now you're my only suspect seeing as you're the only one that I know of who has some shit going on with The Lost aside from me," she explains slowly. "So would you rather I interviewed everyone but you?" she asks incredulously and emits a breathy laugh.

"Shut up." He points at her and slowly she raises her shaking hands to her neck and begins to undo the buttons, her eyes are on him once more and he follows her fingers as she moves down the front of her shirt before allowing it to fall open. She feels dirty and for a brief moment she wonders how she has fallen so hard relying on a damn meth head to keep up her clearance rate.

"Fuckin' stop it, Gina," he tells her and she detects a slight tremble in his voice. "I'm not doin' this. Not today. I've just seen a fuckin' ghost and I can't be fucked with this whole good cop bad cop regime. I can't do this."

She glances down. "Well, it looks like you can, Philips."

He looks at her for a long moment and his body sags against the door whilst she begins to slowly button up her shirt. She grabs her sunglasses and her holster from where they have fallen and swings the leather holster over her shoulder as she strides towards him. "Move, Philips. We had an agreement, you give me information and I give you whatever the fuck you want, and keep you out of the fucking gas chamber." He does not move and she reaches into her back pocket for her handcuffs. She dangles them in front of him and she tells him, "If you're not going to honour our agreement then you leave me no choice. Trevor Philips, you are under arrest for-"

He stops her by grabbing her roughly by the back of neck, he rests his head atop hers his grip on her tight. "Shut up, just fuckin' shut up. You think I want to hear your shit, huh? You do something for me and I'll keep up our agreement, I know you like it," he says his voice a low whisper and she pulls away suppressing a shudder when he slides his hand inside of her shirt and squeezes one of her breasts.

She slaps his hand away and steps back her fingertips tapping her firearm once more. "Alright. What do you need me to do?"


End file.
